Pants on the ground! Pants on the ground! Lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground!
Invoking the Wisdom of the Ages, a few weeks ago the Ocala City Council decided to strike a mighty blow against African-American underwear. They’d rather you didn’t look at it. Not after it leaves Belk’s, anyway. Now, you’re probably thinking, aren’t there any roads to repair, anybody to appoint to the Historic Preservation Advisory Board? But it seems there’s nothing so concerning in this day and age as Underwear Blight. It’s a growing problem. And just because less discriminating cities like, say, Baltimore, Maryland or Bugscuffle, Tennessee, choose to avert their respective eyes, there’s no reason we should.
Now, I will have to confess that I, like every other self-respecting apparel expert, hold no great esteem for Extreme Underwear Visibility unless it happens to be associated with the Victoria’s Secret television show. It probably has something to do with my lack of appreciation for the Black Arts, like hair weaving and rap music, which I am now forced to listen to at all sports venues. And I am still holding a grudge against the African-American culture for imposing on the rest of the world those horrible extra-long basketball shorts which often reach (1), well below the knee (midis) or (2), the floor (maxis).
All of that notwithstanding, someone’s personal disdain for someone else’s wretched choices is inadequate reason for the implementation of actual LAWS against those practices. Otherwise, I would immediately impose a law against cashierless checkout lines at the supermarket (where the bungling machines and confused customers now take longer than they would at a properly manned counter); against electronic devices at the movies, where people are beginning to shoot each other; against bourgeois and unclever signs begging for money at highway exit ramps. Actually, I have been thinking about this for some time and I have decided that positions on these ramps—or street corners—should be reassigned, with signs of particular merit earning more favorable spots. Signs that rhyme or light up in the dark would be given special consideration.
The Behavior Police, of course, do not stop at underwear. Far from it. I have been especially irked over the years by creeping seat belt legislation, which requires everybody in a motor vehicle to be strapped in. I don’t like seat belts. They are uncomfortable. And they prevent you from reaching around to get something off the back seat or the floor on the passenger side. I didn’t wear them for years. Then, I got a ticket in Alabama for $10 and another one in Florida for $71. Now the fine is up to $100, so I wear a seat belt. But I don’t like it. The government is trying to protect me from myself. The same goes for laws in some states requiring motorcyclists to wear helmets. I would absolutely be wearing one if I were on a motorcycle but it’s nobody else’s business what choice I make. None of this behavior affects other people and legislation is preposterous.
Last March, New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg, whom I otherwise like, decided everybody was too fat (he was right) and vendors should therefore be barred from selling sugar-sweetened drinks in cups larger than 16 ounces. The folly of this is evident. The customer merely has to buy two cups. The Board of Health nonetheless voted unanimously to accept the proposed limit. The opposition, led by the altruistic Pepsico, prevailed in court, however, and the ban was flushed. The rolls of the Libertarian Party must have increased severalfold after this debacle.
No Cowboy Costumes On Campus
Students at Colorado State University have been told to avoid “white trash” costumes and any others which portray a particular culture as “oversexualized”—which includes dressing up as a geisha or a squaw. Also, no cowboys, hillbillies or “ghetto wear.”
There will be No Fun At Recess at the Weber Middle School in Port Washington. Administrators were worried that “somebody may get hurt.” Therefore, they have instituted a ban on footballs, baseballs, lacrosse balls and the like. So far, running is still allowed. But not fast running.
People with poor aim will be fined if they miss their mark when using public toilets in Shenzen, China. As is often the case, no one has discussed how enforcement of this law will be administered.
All Kent Couch wanted to do was fly around in a lawn chair suspended from a ton of party balloons. He was even willing to pay the spiraling cost of the helium, now five times what it was for his first “flight” in 2006. Nope, said the Federal Aviation Administration, which just fined him $4500 for his latest venture. Seems he flew without a pilot’s license, failed to register the lawn chair as an aircraft and neglected to have the contraption certified as airworthy.
In Minnetonka, Minnesota, you can be fined up to $2000 for having a muddy vehicle.
In Hazelwood, Missouri, it is against the law for little girls to sell Girl Scout cookies in front of their own homes.
San Francisco, “the land of the free,” has implemented a ban on Happy Meal toys.
In Hilton Head, South Carolina, it is illegal to have trash in your car. Even white trash.
Today, America is “one nation under surveillance.” It’s not much better elsewhere. The Reign of the Nanny State is secure.
I Don’t Give A Crap WHAT Siri Said….
My Mother The Car
We used to really like our cars. Oh, we still like them alright but now one car is pretty much indistinguishable from another. Same styles. Same five or six colors. How many sand-colored pick-up trucks have you seen lately? What percentage of cars is an uninspiring white? In the fifties, automobiles were produced in brilliant hues, many of them two-tones. And you could easily tell a snappy Ford Fairlane from a cute little Chevy Bel-Air. Most Cadillacs had big fins so one day the guys over at Desoto decided okay, everybody loves those Cadillac fins so let’s put some really big fins on our cars, and they did. But nobody mistook them for Cadillacs. Back then, there were lots of convertibles. Nothing better than driving around the beach, rock ‘n’ roll blasting on the radio, hanging out of the convertible. Know anybody with a convertible these days? I don’t. Better yet, in the old days your cars left you alone.
NOW, cars have become a little bossy. They all want you to wear your seat belts and if you don’t, they respond with different degrees of encouragement. The civilized Cadillacs, like mine, are pretty reasonable, perhaps feeling that most of the wealthy people who buy them (not me) prefer not to be nagged. They bong a couple of times and then figure, oh well….and they leave you alone. Not so much with Siobhan’s 2013 Ford 150 pick-up, which gets extremely angry when you don’t buckle up. First, it emits only a casual bong….bong….bong to indicate some mild displeasure. If you ignore this helpful advice, however, the bonging increases in speed and volume—BongbongbongBONGBONGBONGBONGBONGBONG!!!—until you recoil in mortal terror and leap screaming from your truck. Serious injuries have occurred. Now, the Ford Motor Company has always been the worst in these matters. Several years ago, they produced a Ford Taurus which was one of the scariest cars ever. With the Ford Taurus, there was no question about you putting on your seat belt. When you turned the key in the ignition, the belt swung across your body like the tentacles of a giant octopus, trapping you in your seat. I bet some people had heart attacks the first time this happened. For non-seat-belt enthusiasts like myself, immediate diversionary tactics were required. Things like snapping your seat-belt closed behind you (which could be a little uncomfortable) or finding something adequate to stuff in the receptacle. It was a constant battle, especially with rental cars, which always had new and harder-to-fool bongers.
Seat-belt alarms, unfortunately, are only the beginning. The dumbing down of America being what it is, many cars now have sophisticated GPS devices which help the driver figure out where 265 Fifth Street is. Here’s a hint—it’s one block over from 265 Fourth Street. And guess what? Sometimes these helpful little critters are WRONG, leading their faithful followers astray down dubious thoroughfares or sending them many extra miles out of the way. Unfortunately, the devotees of these machines feel certain they are infallible, incapable of sending them deep into some remote ghetto or godforsaken quagmire, which often happens. An unsuspecting husband and wife, fervid disciples of one such instrument, blindly drove down a forlorn road in Nevada which led to nowhere and had no other traffic. They were abruptly snowed in and were surprised to awaken next morning and find themselves dead. Oops. If a warm-blooded human being had misdirected them, at least there would be an outpouring of shame and regret, perhaps even a little tear rolling down a sad cheek. Think the GPS cared? Not one whit. Its disembodied voice was off sending someone else into the middle of the La Brea Tar Pits, perhaps muffling a snide chortle.
These things remind me of Hal, the evil computer in the movie 2001, except that Hal was more sophisticated and had a pleasant, confidence-inspiring voice. The new devices have names like Siri (in case you’re wondering, and we were, it means “beautiful woman who leads you to victory” in Norwegian). Some of them, of course, you can name yourself in a foolish attempt to achieve intimacy. It won’t work. The first time you deviate from the proscribed route, Ruthie or Dawn or Desdemona will promptly and in no uncertain terms advise you of your mistake. If you persist in this foolishness, the scolding will become worse:
Belladonna: Fred, I just told you to turn left at the last corner and you neglected my sage advice. Can you describe to me what you were thinking?
Fred: Well, Bella, I’ve been to this address before and I think it was the other way.
Belladonna: Well, hardy-har-har, Mr. Wizard, but do you realize that I am connected to an information network which is aware of EVERY ADDRESS IN THE UNIVERSE, huh, do you?
Fred: All I’m sayin’ is….
Belladonna: Just keep your pie-hole shut and turn this buggy around before I have to take punitive action!
Fred: Hah! Like what?
Instantly, the car radio comes blasting on, full-volume, with Bette Midler singing Wind Beneath My Wings. Fred emits a loud scream and swiftly makes a U-Turn despite the heavy traffic.
Belladonna: Sorry to be so harsh, Fred. You know I still love you.
Fred (shuddering): I love you, too, Belladonna. I’ll try to be good.
Belladonna: Of course you will, darling. Of course you will.
The Apocalypse is upon us, indeed.
A Blast From The Past
From out of the blue, a magnificent photograph of Dick North, one of the trio (with Bill Killeen and Pamme Brewer) who opened the Subterranean Circus in Gainesville in September of 1967. The shot comes to us from the murky files of old pal Leonard Weinbaum, who shows up every 35 years and then disappears back into the foggy mists of rural Keystone Heights. It was taken at Dick’s leather and metalworking shop, The Apollonian Alternative, so named for reasons known only to Dick, who continues to live on in spirit if not in fact.
And that’s all, folks….
